


Let It Burn

by maxthebd



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rape/Non-con References, Sexual Assault, Stalking, Triggers, mentions of off-screen child abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-19
Updated: 2014-04-03
Packaged: 2017-11-19 00:58:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/567243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maxthebd/pseuds/maxthebd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the SH BBC Kink Meme: John has been acting very strangely lately. His left hand has been trembling and the other day Sherlock saw him grab his leg in pain the other day.</p><p>What Sherlock doesn't know: The man that abused John as a child has been released from prison. Lestrade let John know and John has asked Lestrade to not tell anyone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thrice-damned Technology

"Fucking Christ."  
  
The hissed curse drew the attention of a nearby constable, who watched their superior officer end the call he received glare at the mobile as if it offended him in some fashion. They made a show of their attention being solely on their work when he shoved the piece of technology into his wrinkled blazer's pocket.  
  
"Back to work," Greg directed his focus on the distracted officer and dismissed them back to the task at hand.  
  
He ran a hand through his silvered hair and looked over the crime scene. Greg's gazed halted on a very much alive Sherlock Holmes, who leaned far enough over Dr. Watson to nearly cover the smaller man.  
  
And was that a fucking new Belstaff?  
  
He paused and watched the two interact in their typical over-familiar fashion, the older of the two even bothered to smile at Anderson.  
  
Which meant that Greg's day officially went to shit. That smile on John's face would not last long after Greg borrowed him.  
  
Greg rolled his shoulders and moved to join the three men all leaning over the corpse of a young woman in her early twenties, her skirt hiked up to her waist in what was originally mistaken for rape, save the multiple stab wounds littering her uncovered torso.  
  
"Sherlock-" Greg swallowed back a lump in his throat. He cleared his throat once more, well aware of Sherlock's narrowed eyes as he continued. "I need to borrow John."  
  
Emotions that three years ago, Greg would have assumed Sherlock just wasn't capable of, flitted across the detective's pale face before he waved a glove-covered hand at him and moved to let John up.  
  
Greg held out his hands, waiting for the doctor to grab them before he pulled the blond out of his crouch.  
  
John Watson tilted his head, most likely trying to deduce what Lestrade had in mind for him, but let the DI drag him to the other side of the crime scene and gently pin him against a filthy alley wall.  
  
"Up for a mid-afternoon snog?" John grinned and shifted out from Greg's grip on his shoulders. "A little on the wild side for you, yeah?"  
  
Greg snorted and stifled his amusement with a glance up and down the alley. Once he was satisfied with the lack of witnesses, he stepped back and fixed a concerned look at the ex-soldier in front of him.  
  
"Do you know a Jonathan Barlow?"  
  
John stiffened, dark-blue eyes moving rapidly over Greg's face. "Last I heard, they moved him from Belmarsh to Thamestead." He stepped away from the wall and shifted his shoulder minutely back.  
  
Lestrade reached for him again a tug to bring the man closer, if anything to ground them both. "John,he got sent to Latchmere House. He's been out for two weeks and from I'm told, John, he's looking for you."  
  
John stared at his feet for a few moments before he licked his lips and worried at his lower lip. "Shit," he breathed. "You'd think after 20 years, he'd have something else to focus on."  
  
"Dammit, John..." Greg shook him lightly and held him there. "If it comes down to it, I don't want you taking him on by yourself."  
  
"He won't come," John responded quietly and jerked back to himself when they both heard an openly concerned "John?"  
  
The aforementioned man snapped his eyes back on the DI and patted Greg's upper arm with a glib "maybe a pint later?"  
  
"John," Sherlock stopped behind him and wrapped his arms around John's shoulders. "I'll have this case solved by nightfall. Dim sum?"  
  
Greg watched the black-haired detective whisper in John's ear before both men leveled twin concerned gazes at him. "Joh, I'll text you when I'm off," he answered John's earlier question and watched the mop of black curls whisper in John's ear again. "Unless his Majesty had something else in mind."  
  
"Come on, John," Sherlock whined (the brat) and used his gangly limbs to steer John toward the mouth of the alley.  
  
Lestrade followed both men, stopping to watch them duck into a hailed taxi, and ducked back under the yellow tape.  
  
  
~*~*~  
  
A newsreel.  
  
That was it.  
  
Just one sixty-second clip was all it took to cut his entire twenty years and two weeks of searching, watching, and observing everything completely short.  
  
Jonathan Barlow normally ignored the blaring television sets in the electronic store's window display, except everyone crowded around it and by some unspoken human law, he needed to see what had everyone else's attention.  
  
A newsreel about the return of London's favored "consulting detective", Sherlock Holmes.  
  
He had to admit that the black hair, pale, and the sharp cheekbones deserved a second glance, but clad in the big coat of his, wasn't anything Jonathan usually bothered with.  
  
He did give the bloke some credit. Between the hair, the skin, and those cheekbones, Sherlock required a second and third glance, but truthfully, as pretty as the man was, he wasn't Jonathan's type.  
  
If he had been a bit younger...then may he'd consider it, but truthfully, Jonathan preferred his blue-eyed blondes.  
  
He preferred his Johnny.  
  
The anchor rattled onto to mention something about the detective's companion and rumored lover, one John Watson, ex-RAMC doctor and soldier.  
  
His head snapped up at the name.  
  
He shoved the two people in front of him out of the way, pressing himself against the glass to finish watching the reel. The dark smirk on his face was enough to make a few people shift away in discomfort.  
  
Twenty years.  
  
Twenty years of being away and he heard the stories about his precious, sweet little boy growing into this fantastic soldier with a medical degree, discharged a hero, and now played, well, no one could really tell him what John Watson meant to Sherlock Holmes.  
  
Jonathan knew that the latter faked his own death to protect the former. Which meant that he'd have a fight on his hands.  
  
It just wouldn't do to have Johnny's attention split between the two of them. It simply wasn't fair.  
  
His thumb smeared against the glass, the track covered Sherlock's face and allowed him to watch his beautiful boy, Johnny, John, walk next to the man, oblivious to whoever caught the film.  
  
He swallowed hard and reached down to reposition his trousers.  
  
Twenty years did nothing to his body's memory of John's precious body around him. It did nothing to stifle the urge to feel John writhe underneath him again  
  
And for once in the past twenty years, Jonathan found himself grateful for modern-day technology.  
  
After all, it found his Johnny for him.


	2. Pound The Alarm

The man behind the glass and metal desk flinched when beeping filtered through his focus on the documentation on the monitor in front of him.  
  
Beeps precede the magnetic locks' release, allowing the office door of Mycroft Holmes to swing open and reveal yet another young, faceless associate with a file that he would most likely hand back to said faceless associate once he was finished glancing over it.  
  
Unless the associate said something even worthy of some interest.  
  
"Sir, Dr. Watson's file was flagged by the Correctional System," he spoke without prompting.   
  
The faceless associate now had a face. Mycroft leaned back in his chair, wincing at the creaking leather, and flicked a look at the associate's badge.  
  
Creeley.  
  
Who very clearly was not a new associate. The tenured ones knew that any matter pertaining to either Sherlock or his flatmate was classified as Critical.  
  
Anything to do with those two at least warranted a brief investigation. "Did the dear doctor land another Sherlock-induced ASBO?"  
  
The associate smothered an attempted smile, rearranging his face when he realized that Mycroft caught him.  
  
Then again, the entire department knew that John's ASBOs were all courtesy of Sherlock in some form. That, and with as long as the man had them against his name, they were a bit of joke. After all, they tended to disappear within hours.  
  
Some days, Mycroft felt that making ASBOs disappear was all the fun anyone let him have.  
  
"It's in regards to a convict's release. Jonathan Barlow, aged 58, accused and tried of two counts of sexually assaulting a minor, one count of kidnapping and a count of sodomy of one," Creeley paused, coughed, and cleared his throat before finishing with "thirteen-year-old John Hamish Watson, sir."  
  
A manicured hand reached up, waiting for the folder to be  handed to him. His face betraying nothing, Mycroft flipped through the brief and dismissed the associate with a blase "send in A."  
  
"Yes, sir," the associate departed, closing the door quietly and leaving Mycroft to the file.  
  
The elder Holmes allowed his expression to fall before holding his face in his hands. None of the file's contents contained what he and his staff knew about Captain Dr. John H. Watson.  
  
The beeping resounded signaling A's arrival.  
  
"Increase the surveillance on John," he shut the file and handed it to her upon her approach. "And I do hope you've skipped lunch before you read the contents of that folder."  
  
"Sir," she tilted her head curiously and flipped through the file with a noticeable frown.  
  
Which swiftly grew into a scowl. "Why am I finding out about this now?"  
  
Mycroft didn't require superior observation skills to hear the unspoken question between them. Why isn't this in my files?  
  
"An excellent question, my dear. One I'd prefer you answer since our staff seems incompetent." He leaned back in his chair, watching the young woman before him continue to skim the file without bothering to check her handheld. The non-gesture spoke volumes to anyone who bothered observing.  
  
John Watson was a beloved subject among his staff and a personal project for a good chunk of them. A also included.  
  
"Use whatever resources you'll require, but do avoid Sherlock's attention. He'll be a handful once John bothers to tell him."  
  
In the meantime, Mycroft would take it upon himself to  discover why a Class A criminal was downgraded so quickly and return the felon back to Class E security.  
  
Far away from John Watson as physically possible.  
  
"Of course," she snapped the file shut and tucked it under a tailored arm. Fixing a tired look at Mycroft, she bid him a good night.  
  
"Good night, my dear." Mycroft leaned back in his chair and watched her leave before inhaling to center himself. He reached for his mobile and tapped out a familiar number.  
  
When the call connected, he smiled, crooning a low "Ah, S, this is M. I require a favor of you."  
  
~*~*~  
  
Sand and screams enveloped his vision before it bled over to white scratchy sheets and someone hot, heavy holding him down.  
  
Sand and screams, oh god, the screams, flooded his vision and bled into white scratchy sheets and heat, hot, too hot, something heavy, someone heavy holding him down.  
  
"No," he whimpered before screaming at the top of his lungs. John managed a sharp inhale when a large fist shoved its way into his mouth and stifled his cries.  
  
The body, that bastard, he trust him, he'll never trust anyone anymore, thrusted hard enough to tear into him, tear through him.  
  
His body offered up the only lubricant it knew to give when John felt himself being impaled, ripped into searing-hot shreds of agony.  
  
His face burned when tears streamed from his eyes. He shut them, ignoring the sting and hoping that his struggles would finally end this.  
  
He just wanted it to stop.  
  
He started to cry when the fist pulled away, the saliva-soaked hand gently brushing his sore cheeks.   
  
"That's my boy," the whisper that would forever haunt him, still haunts him, Christ, he never wants to hear it again. "So good to me, aren't you?"  
  
The hand, paw for all he cared, latched back onto his face, turning a scream into a squeak as it gagged him.   
  
"My beautiful boy," another thrust seared a wave of pain through him, overshadowing the set of teeth sinking into his neck in an effort to get to stop writhing--  
  
A light touch on his healthy shoulder sliced through the memory.  
  
A scared "John, for God's sake, wake up" brought him out of the nightmare entirely.  
  
John flailed, jack-knifing awake to a moon-lit room and finding himself face to face with a tense Sherlock Holmes.  
  
The detective held one hand in the air, as if burned, but wasn't sure what he should about it.  
  
Sobs slowed into gasps as John attempted to compose himself. He wiped away the tears that still stung, even after all of these years.  
  
That fucking bastard was back. John inhaled deeply and wiped at the slowing tears. Swallowing hard, he forced out a weak apology. "Did I wake you?"  
  
Sherlock flicked on John's bedside lamp and scooted closer, watching John for any sign of rejection.  
  
"No, I was looking over today's wound photos. You on the other hand, haven't screamed like that in months."  
  
"I'm sorry," John forced out and caught the detective's darkened gaze. "I guess this last case has me unsettled."  
  
Up rose a ginger-scattered eyebrow as John's understatement. "John, damn it, you- understatements are below you."  
  
John leaned back against the headboard. Sherlock being unable to verbalize any observation was a scared Sherlock. "I'm sorry. Are we finished here?"  
  
"This wasn't Afghanistan." Sherlock diverted the question to scoot higher up the bed, stopping when his hip lightly jostles John's. "Your limp has returned and you're not taking as many locum shifts with your hand's tremor. John, what happened?"  
  
"It's just an old memory, Sherlock. That's all. Have you solved the case yet?"  
  
"John, you've failed twice at changing the subject. I'll going to change into something comfortable and return. If all else fails, studies have shown that sleeping with another person reduces the chance of night terrors, we'll both benefit. " Sherlock flung himself off of the bed and began pacing at the bedside.  
  
"And locking your door is a wretched idea. I'll only pick it open again. You honestly don't get a say tonight. Not after screaming like that." Sherlock stopped mid-stride, his eyes darting over John's face, picking out the micro-expressions that had his face softening. "Actually, you do have a choice in the matter."  
  
He watched John take a deep breath and let it go after a count of ten.  
  
John looked down at his duvet, his fist grabbing and wrinkling the linen over his knee while he gathered his thoughts.  
  
This hadn't been the first time Sherlock's made the roundabout offer of being John's security blanket and it had been a while since he shared a bed with anyone he dared to trust.  
  
"Your choice, John," Sherlock reiterated, his hand drifting to the bedside lamp as if turning the light on or off would help John make his decision. "You will always have a choice."  
  
"Stay," John looked up, biting his lip again before bringing his knees up closer. "Please."  
  
"Three minutes at best." Sherlock turned on a heel and disappeared from the bedroom, leaving a swinging door in his wake.  
  
Three minutes was more then enough for Sherlock to return, dressed for bed in clothes that looked ratty, but John knew would still cost him a year's locum salary.   
  
He scooted over to leave room for Sherlock, watching the man drape a new aubergine dressing gown over the foot board before he slid into the empty space.  
  
"Good night, John," The baritone voice dropped to sub-sonic levels as a long arm reached to turn off the bedside lamp.  
  
"Night, Sherlock," John answered, rolling away from the detective and nestling deep into a pillow, praying that sleep would take hold of him quickly and painlessly.  
  
Sherlock waited for John's breathing to even out before he spooned up behind the blond and carefully embraced him. Once both men were settled to Sherlock's satisfaction, only then did he allow Sleep to take him under.


	3. Tried

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade needs to learn about personal boundaries...again.

Greg Lestrade fucking hated doubles.  
  
Especially when they were due to some arse named Dimmock, who decided to get completely pissed the night before and left Greg to work yet another twelve-hour on top of his newly-completed shift.  
  
So Dimmock owed him.  
  
Dearly.  
  
So much in fact that Greg would only be satisifed if the piss-ant worked an entire week of doubles.  
  
Which would leave him plenty of time to figure out the problem with his current stack of paperwork.  
  
And the problem with a certain ex-army doctor who had Greg fucking worried.  
  
His mobile vibrated and lit up, the display showing "Unknown Number".   
  
Curious.  
  
He gazed at the mobile and considered the identity of the caller.  
  
All work-related calls were directed to his desk phone. This wasn't MET related.  
  
Anyone worth contacting was saved in his mobile.   
  
Sherlock preferred to text.  
  
The ponce.  
  
When you have eliminated everything else, it left one person with the power to steal phone numbers out of thin air.  
  
Rolling his eyes, he answered to hear the smooth tenor of Mycroft Holmes on the other end.  
  
Surprise, surprise.   
  
The numbers were always different, but the elder Holmes was still the same. “Ah, Mr. Holmes. Occasional British Government, CIA, and Sherlock’s arch nemesis, to what do I owe the honor of your call?”  
  
Mycroft’s answer was a bucket of ice-chilled water to his chest.”Jonathan Barlow and all of the information you have on him.”  
  
"You're a bit late to the party," Greg forced out as he got up to close his office door and glared at Sally when she cocked her head at him in curiosity. "I've already told the concerned party. Even if said man is sleeping with your brother. He waited for the acidic retort that should be on the way.  
  
Any time now.  
  
"Gregory," ahhh, there was that infamous Holmes derision. "We both know that I approve of my brother's lover. Which is why we both also know that I will find out why a Class A convict was downgraded to Class E before being released not even three months after my brother's return," Mycroft paused, the sound of shifted papers and quick fingers on a keyboard filtered through the connection.  
  
"I would absolutely adore you're telling me why none of this was in any of John's background information."  
  
Greg flipped through the file and saw the reason staring up at him in black and white. "Parental injunction. The Watsons wanted this one quiet."  
  
It still didn't explain why paperwork which took six months to downgrade a prisoner to just one level was somehow cut down to three months for five. "What is going on, Mycroft?"  
  
"You're an intelligent man, Gregory. Trut your instincts. You will require them." The call ended with a marked click and left Greg staring at his office walls before slammed his mobile onto his desk and slapped the file shut.  
  
“Fuck,” Greg got up to fling his office door back open, beckoning to Donovan before returning to his chair. “Donovan, in here, shut the door behind you.”  
  
She slid the door home and leaned against it. “What is it?”  
  
“Say what you like of Sherlock, Lord knows you can't help yourself, but you like John well enough, right?”  
  
“Watson is the only reason I haven’t shot Sherlock Holmes myself. Why do you have a sexual assault file?” She approached, only to stop short when she saw the folder's colored tag. “Good god, that isn't on John, is it?”  
  
“This is for your eyes only. If I hear this out of anyone else, I’m assuming it’s because of your fuck-up and I will terminate you without question.” He slid the folder to her, letting her decide if she wanted to take this on, but he knew John would need back-up if everything went tits up.  
  
She hesitated, picking it up to flip it open. Her jaw dropped while she read the contents. “What the hell is this?"  
  
“John's,” he swallowed the lump forming in his throat over his word choice. “Rapist was released over two weeks ago. Stephan Lowe, you know him? He's over at Latchmere House. Tells me that the bastard is looking for ‘his johnny’. Now, I’ve told John, but the less Holmes knows, the better. If Barlow shows up dead, it won’t take two guesses to figure who did him in.” Greg ran his hands over his face before running them through his hair. “What would you do?”  
  
“Look the other way when the Freak does the bastard in?” she hedged with a smirk. "Sorry, wrong choice. Well, I'd offer protective custody, but Sherlock would figure it out in seconds.”  
  
She sighed, tapping the closed file against her hand and contemplating her plan before answering him. "We'd then lose John's trust because I imagine he's asked you not to mention a word of this. Who else knows?"  
  
Greg leaned over the desktop on his elbows, his hands steepled in front of his face. "Mycroft Holmes."  
  
“Mr. Government?" Sally stared at him wide-eyed. "God help us all.”  
  
~*~*~  
  
The bonds chafed irritated skin whenever the naked auburn-haired young man fidgeted in his kneeling position and whimpered "for the love of God, just stop, please."  
  
Jonathan Barlow did consider gagging the University student, but decided against it when Matthew started up  that lovely begging.  
  
Pity it wouldn’t actually get the sweetheart anywhere.  
  
He looked over the laptop’s display to marvel over the bruises currently littering Matt’s skin, was it Matt, or maybe Ian, he couldn’t remember who the owner was, and truthfully, it didn't matter if the owner was already dead. “Love, black and blue suits you.”  
  
“Just let me go,” the deep baritone cracked into a higher whine.  
  
“After I'm finished,” he grinned when the Google search rendered. A delighted noise escaped him when he saw the first result.  
  
“A blogger. My boy's a writer. I knew he had a fantastic imagination.” He skimmed through the website and saw the contact information on the right.  
  
Oh, it was almost too easy. He inhaled sharply and shuddered, scribbling the information down on a slip of paper before slamming the laptop shut and throwing it on the blankets.  
  
“Now, where were we,” he sauntered to the shuddering young man and back-handed him to the floor. Pausing to unbuckle his belt and drop his trousers, he knelt to the floor and bodily flipped the gangly creature below him onto its stomach. He pressed on the hand-shaped bruise left on a reddened buttock and whispered, “Ah, yes. Now stay still. This might hurt."  
  
~*~*~  
  
“You look like shit.” The growl in John’s ear startled him into almost dropping his pint.  
  
“Didn't we have this conversation about boundaries,” the blond rolled his shoulder to dislodge his favorite Yardie and turn his attention back to his dwindling drink.  
  
“John, John, John. Boundaries took a hike when you started shagging His Highness,” the greying man quipped, sliding onto the open bar stool at John’s left. Greg Lestrade waved to the bartender down the counter, who acknowledged them with a nod and began to fill another drink for John.  
  
“What will it be, mate?” The blond twenty-something traded John’s empty pint for the new one.  
  
“Two fingers of your finest whiskey.” Greg set a black card on the bar top and grinned at John. “The dustier the bottle, the better.”  
  
Blue eyes bugged at the card as the bartender stumbled over his “you got it.”  
  
Waiting for the young man to head to the register to start a tab, John looked at the amused inspector and raised an eyebrow. “That card gives me this sudden feeling of deja vu.”  
  
“His Highness hasn’t deduced it’s absence,” Greg snickered. “The brat used to do it to me all the time. I'm taking my recompense in overly-expensive whiskey.”  
  
John lifted the pint, “here, here,” and took a long swig. “Should we stay here or finish at a booth?”  
  
The shots were set on the bar top, along with the returned card. “Enjoy it, you two.”  
  
“Ta,” Greg grabbed both shots and slid off of the stool, nodding to John. “To a booth.” He shifted his way through the crowd to an empty booth before looking behind him for John.  
  
Watching the ex-soldier limp his way through the mess had Greg downing his shot earlier than expected. Looking to the bar, he caught the bartender’s eye once more and held up two fingers, before his hand lowered to push John into a booth seat, sliding in next to the ex-doctor.  
  
“Same side? Seriously?” John shifted against the inspector’s side, stilling when two more fingers of whiskey appeared on the table. “Shit, it's a four-shot night?”  
  
“Sherlock needs to watch his wallet better.” Greg downed the second shot before focusing his attention on John. “You alright? You're looking a little gray these days.”  
  
“Nightmares and this.” John waved to the sky as he corralled the two shot glasses nearest to him behind a jacketed arm. “Mitts off, they're mine.”  
  
“Fine,” Greg still nicked one of the glasses to knock it back. “Jesus, this stuff is amazing!”  
  
That awarded him a laugh out of John. “Was that before or after you saw the barhop's arse?”  
  
“Before. Though, I wouldn’t kick him out of my bed,” Greg nodded before lifting his hand again. “Now, talk to me about Barlow. And don't lie. You're shit at it.”  
  
John polished off his own shot with a hard swallow. “The bastard comes within twenty yards and I’ll put a fucking hole in his skull. You did not hear that.” He downed another shot shortly after and winced against the burn in his throat. “Now, where’s that next round?”  
  
~*~*~  
  
The smells of copper, sex, and sweat filled his nostrils as he pulled out of the now limp body under him and rolled the unconscious man onto his back. Reaching up to cradle Matthew’s sweat-soaked head between his blood and semen-stained hands, Jonathan brushed the now-soaked tendrils away from the other's face and smiled, congratulating himself on a job well done.  
  
The gentle expression then morphed into a blank mask, as he applied just enough pressure to the tendons in his grip and snapped the lad’s neck.  
  
Letting the body fall and rising to his feet, Jonathan began putting himself back together, his eyes constantly returning to the bruise-mottled mess on the floor.

To the Met, the situation would look like rough sex gone hideously wrong.  
  
To him?  
  
Well, that didn't matter, did it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments, the feedback (seriously), the hits, the kudos, and the love!
> 
> And if you want to chat, you can follow me on [Tumblr](http://maxthebd.tumblr.com). Now you can poke fun at me because the prompt looks like it developed a mind of its own.


	4. Nothing and Everything

Sunday morning brought near silence to the university residence hall, gently interrupted by the pad of bare feet. Rubbing his eyes, the raven-haired male made his way back to his room, only to curse when he saw the silk tie still dangling from the doorknob.

Sexiled.

_Again_. The next time Matt needed to get his rocks off, Seth Donahue was kicking his arse off-campus so he could at least sleep in his own bed for once.

That's it. “Next time you want to get your rocks off, get your fucking arse off-campus,” he groused. Banging on the door loud enough to rouse his roommate, he shouts, “come on, Matt! Can I at least change my pants? Hey! Open the fucking door!”

Silence.

Knocking again, he scowls when he receives even more silence.

Huffing an expletive, he knocked on a neighbor’s door, almost jumped for joy when the ginger bird (so cute) opened the door to stare up at him. 

Blinking sleep from her eyes, she looked into the corridor and over at his dorm's door. “Sexiled you again, did he?”

“The bastard needs his own flat if he keeps this up. You’ve got my key, yeah?” Leaning against the doorjamb, he watchs Beth quietly walk to her desk, open the top drawer, and pull out a familiar envelope.

“One back-up key, as agreed. Take the piss for me, will you, Donahue?” She gently shoves Seth into the corridor and presses her door closed.

“She’s so cute,” he croons, kissing the envelope in his hands before ripping it open to reveal the back-up key. “And once I get my hands on you, Matt,” unlocking the door, he steps inside and inhales sharply. “The fuck happened here?”

He stopped just over the threshold and took in the destroyed room, his gaze halted when he saw Matt's feet on the floor. “Oh, you deserve the floor, you prat.” He walked over to kick the young man awake (they had a method) and stopped when he took in Matt's complete unresponsiveness.

Well hell.

Crouching down, Seth pats at Matt’s face and falls back when he sees the condition of his roommate’s body…and feels the chilly skin. “Holy shit!” Half-dragging himself backwards, he only stops when he hits the wall. Struggling to reach his pajama's pocket for his mobile, he whimpers a pathetic “Christ alive,” and dials 999.

~*~*~

He was never drinking whiskey with Greg ever again.

Especially if he wakes up to find himself in the midst of a war with his arch-nemesis, Sunlight.

There will be no more Talisker for John Watson. Ever again.

_Ever._

He rolled over and buried his face in his pillow with a grumbled, “Never fucking again.”

“I’m not sure who I’d hate to be more right now. Lestrade for lifting Mycroft’s cash card, or you for your hangover,” a playful baritone rumbled against his ear. Long arms twined around John to tug the smaller man into a snug, fantastic-smelling embrace. Sherlock pillowed his own head against the sweat-soaked blond hair beneath his chin and continued. 

"Paracetamol is on the night table. I'd offer the bin, but you did vomit on Lestrade's shoes last night." His head lifted away, replaced by a hand carding through John's hair. 

"God," John moaned, content to lay there with his Sherlock-body heater and suffer through his hangover-induced migraine.

The man gave off heat like a radiator. 

Naturally, Sherlock had a different idea. Bear-hugging John, he rolled onto his back and gentling his grip to let John sprawl on top of him.

Snorting against Sherlock's sleep shirt, John nuzzled his cheek against the chest below him and froze. 

Vibrations preceded the jangle of his mobile, on the nearby night table.

“Yep, the atmosphere is dead,” he deadpanned, watching one pale, lean-muscled arm reach over to confiscate the phone.

Sherlock loudly answered the call. John grimaced and retaliated with grabbing a pillow and knocking it against that Sherlock's tousled head.

He'll make Sherlock regret that grin on his face when the idiot decides to get himself drunk. Willing his own head to stop loathing him and whoa- John found himself face-first on the floor. He looked up to see Sherlock leap from the bed, rip his dressing coat from a hook near the door and run down the stairs yelling “a murder, John! Lestrade needs me, err, us!”

“At least one of us is enjoying this.” John winced at his lover's volume, only to sigh and attempt to relax on the floor. Why bother moving if he was already down?

He hoped Sherlock remembered to put some clothes on. It would be hilarious for the barmy git to get an ASBO for running to the Yard starkers.

Scratch that, it'd be funny as _hell_. 

Monkey toes stepped in John's line of sight not even a minute later. "If it helps, Lestrade sounded as wrecked as you look like you feel."

"I bet he didn't have his partner throw him on the floor either," John's grousing ended in a high whine when Sherlock gently pulled the blanket off of him. "Can't you take this one alone?"

Sherlock crouched next to him, fitted large hands under John's armpits and lifted them both up to sit on the bed. "Lestrade's requested a professional medical opinion. He said 'misery must be shared'." He rose to stand, spinning back to face John. "The taxi will be here in five minutes."

John started to stand and swayed at the first step, crumpling to the floor at the second step.

Concern swiftly warred with minor anxiety on Sherlock’s face, hidden when he slipped an arm around John's chest and lifted the doctor back to the bed. “Or fifteen.” Stepping back, he watches John clutch at his thigh, the compact fingers working deep in the tissue to alleviate the previously-forgotten phantom ache. “Would arnica help?”

“I'm fine,” John forced a smile, that failed if he judged anything by Sherlock’s scowl. “I’ll be down in ten.”

The detective hesitated at the door, looking into the stairwell and back to John, his expression thoughtful.

Since John loathed that look, he felt around for something to press his point. Grabbing the pillow that fell off of the bed when he did, he chucked it at Sherlock with a solid “Go!”

The solid-sounding thudding of the pillow against the door should have been more satisfying.

~*~*~ 

Student.

Student.

Professor.

Student.

_Why did that guy look familiar?_ Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade thought to himself and scanned the crowd of students and professors in the corridor on either side of the caution tape, stopping when his coat pocket vibrated. He briefly looked at his watch to check the time.

Sherlock was late. 

Or on time according to Holmes-time. 

Pulling out his mobile, he noticed the missed text notifications. Two texts, both from Sherlock. The first asking about the scene's location. The second a cheeky “nevermind, we see you. - SH.” 

Crowding students' volume grew higher when he saw the familiar black mop at the edge of the crowd, only to drop off completely when the entire group parted, allowing the infamous Sherlock Holmes to pass through.

Greg nodded to a constable, who looked awfully uncomfortable with the consulting detective so close to the yellow line she guarded. "Love, he's with us."

"Thank you, Sir," she returned the nod, lifting the tape to allow Sherlock to step under,scowling when she saw the height difference.

"Thank you, Constable Morstan," Sherlock finished lifting the tape, pausing to wait momentarily for John. Watching the good doctor stumble not even mere steps from him, he felt his face pinch with concern before he moved into action. Pulling John flush against his side, his lips caught John's ear, the fluttering raising a flush on the blond's face. “Your leg is bothering you,” he whispered, both men ducking behind the tarpaulins guarding the morning's tableau. "We'll discuss it later.” He pulled away and stood tall. “Lestrade, please tell me I don't hear or smell Anderson.”

“How about Mallory? You liked her the last time.”

“Oh, it's Christmas! John, a technician who doesn't sleep with her coworkers!”

Rolling his eyes, Greg watched the detective swoop into the room and make a bee-line straight for the young man's corpse in the middle. Walking over to John, who had stopped just inside the room and leaned against one of the bureaus lining the wall, he leaned over to whisper "someone's chipper this morning."

"The bastard threw me out of bed when you called. Literally," John delivered blankly, his attention on the Sherlock's Belstaf-clad back. "And I'm told I owe you a pair of shoes."

"At least you didn't wake up to find out you nicked the wrong Holmes' cash card," Greg winced and pulled out his wallet, opening and closing it again once he realized the aforementioned card was _missing_.

“Son of a bitch. Well, I was going to give it back to you but-"

"For such a lauded Detective Inspector, your pick-pocketing skills are absymal," Sherlock stopped in front of them, flashing the cash card in one leather-encased hand. "Also, do refresh my memory, but how many linked murders do you require to have a serial killer?" 

~*~*~

Twenty years of being thrown away by the Empire's penal system and University students were still incompetent idiots.

All he needed to fool the masses was the appropriate disguise. The students' alcohol-soaked brains would take care of the hard work for him. 

Nicking a blazer and a button-up from his latest conquest, (he had tossed his own shirts in the medical wing's crematorium, dried blood felt hideous against his skin) and pairing them with his own trousers, the outfit gave him enough material to prove just how unobservant today's students truly were.

For all they cared, he was just another professor drawn to the scene by the growing crowd.

Well, an audience did help.

Truthfully, it was the police blockade that lured him back to the room he left not even eight hours ago, at least until constables erected tarpaulins. He overheard a student explain to another that the tarps kept students from getting a supposed traumatic eyeful.

Mother Mary save him from today's youth. “Imbeciles,” he scoffed to the back of a student's head.

Black curls and a billowing coat caught his attention before the crowd jostled him in kind. The mass took one large step back to make way for Sherlock Holmes to pass through. Jonathan's jaw dropped when he spotted the man following the detective.

“Johnny,” he whispered, taking in the doctor's tired profile and gait. Twenty years later, he could still see his boy, his man, John Watson was still his beautiful boy.

He wants him back, _now_. 

Filled with the overwhelming urge to hold him, he crept closer, resisting the need to call John Watson’s name. Reaching out for John's jacket, he finds himself blocked by Sherlock.

Not hearing what Sherlock said to John, Jonathan however did not miss the concern written all over that striking face. The detective pulled John snug against his side, the concern morphing into a harsh whisper against John's ear before Sherlock dropped the tape behind them.

Feeling his heart shatter only fueled a burgeoning rage as he watched both men disappear behind the tarps. He scowled viciously enough for some of students to look at him and take minute steps back, fleeing when the constables fanned out to thin and disperse the crowd.

He followed a random group that offered various platitudes including “oh, a murder! Poor Mattie didn’t deserve it” all around him while they lead him into a common area before scattering themselves.

Reaching into the borrowed blazer’s pocket, he pulled out the slip of paper that contained the information he found on Google earlier. “Not yet,” he sighed and repocketed the note. “Soon, Johnny, soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've read this on the Kink Meme...you may not recognize it. (Note to self: work on this over at the Kink Meme.)
> 
> If you've read this chapter on [Tumblr](http://maxthebd.tumblr.com), well, I hated that version after a week or two, so I changed it.
> 
> That said, I would like someone to help me Brit-pick this beast. 
> 
> Oh, it will definitely be a beast.


	5. Vishnu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, having a good memory is an awful idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betaed by [RosaryonmyLips](http://rosaryonmylips.tumblr.com).

“Three. Trois. The Golden Trio. The Trifecta. The most beautiful number in the criminal world, John, a serial killer! Christmas is here! I knew I was a good boy this year.” Sherlock pinned John against 221 Baker Street’s common door to press a swift opened-mouth kiss against the blond’s mouth. Pulling away, he licked his lips and grinned. “Definitely a good boy.”

“I can arrest you both for public indecency. At least wait until you’re inside to ravage each other.”

Sherlock growled, his head dropping on John’s shoulder. “Mycroft. To what do we owe the honor?”

“John, a word?” The older Holmes leaned against the sedan’s door, the ubiquitous umbrella missing and replaced with a nondescript folder containing Heaven-only-knew-what tapping against his hip. 

Sherlock snapped his head up to look at John, watching the dark blue eyes and the mind behind them take Mycroft’s words and attach them to whatever kept John’s mind occupied these days. 

Something that he failed to tell Sherlock.

Something that his brother knew. Something that he hadn’t felt the need to share.

His lover would drive him bloody mad.

“John, please.” Mycroft stood with his own power, tapping the sedan’s roof to let the car leave.

Both ex-soldier and detective paused at the door, one of the four hands working the deadbolt open and both all but falling into 221’s foyer. 

“Impressive, John. Mycroft only begs when a lover has him on his knees.” Sherlock ducked into John’s personal space to steal another kiss, only to smile when the twin scandalized calls of his name followed him up the stairs to 221B.

John made to follow, halted by a large hand curled around his bicep. “Mycroft.”

He was promptly yanked mere inches to the government official, who hissed at him.

“Captain Watson, if you were one of my associates, I would have had you terminated and left in Siberia But since I’ve spent the last five years considering you family, I have to ask: why the hell Mycroft slapped the folder against John’s chest-- “did you not tell me about Jonathan Barlow?”

The sharp inhale and widening eyes told Mycroft enough to let the anger behind his actions fade. “At least tell me why he was with you in the residence hall.”

“Let it die, Mycroft. This isn’t one you can fix.” John stiffened, slowly rolling his shoulders back and standing taller in the face of authority. “I know he’s out. I’m just mindful around folks these days.”

Mycroft swallowed a sigh and let the man go. Right now John needed space, because if things hadn’t went, well, to shit, this matter would have never came to Scotland Yard or Mycroft’s attentions.

“Anything else, before Sherlock sends down a search party?” John shook his head and swallowed audibly.

“Not at all. My apologies, John. Do have a good night,” Mycroft nodded, a manicured hand reaching up to adjust his tie and blazer. 

John waited long enough for the government official to walk through the door.

John threw his fist into the nearest wall with a huffed “son of a bitch.”

~*~*~

The neighboring stool’s creak announced the arrival of Sally Donovan, who ordered a finger of whiskey before she turned to Greg Lestrade. “The Freak was glowing today. How long has it been since we’ve handled a serial killer?”

“Sally, for the love of God, don’t talk about work. It makes my ale taste bad.” Greg held up his half-empty pint, his smile not aimed at Sally but the man behind the bar. “Sally, Teddy. Teddy, Sally Donovan.”

The blond turned his welcome smile up a few charming notches, breaking into a laugh when Sally ducked her head. “‘Ello Ms. Donovan. More whiskey for you?”

“I’m good,” she waved him away, half of her attention on Greg’s face going slightly green. “Bad night with my favorite brew, Boss?”

“My hangover is not up for discussion, Donovan. Or I’ll ask how Anderson is doing and I’d rather not get sick.” 

Her shove almost knocked him off of his bar stool. 

“Shove off, or I’ll let Teddy know that you’ve been checking out his arse.” She glowered and knocked the tumbler back.

If Greg hadn’t been laughing, he would have respected the woman for knowing how to drink. “Truth be told, Teddy does have a fine arse. He’s also not interested in me.”

“Can I try?”

“He likes John.” Greg finished his glass and waved Teddy down for a second. “Must be the jumpers.”

Sally shot a long look at Greg before both of them dissolved into tipsy giggles. “The ones that do him no favors?”

“It’s actually his blog,” Teddy set another tumbler in front of Sally and another pint in front of Greg. “But I’m no Sherlock Holmes,” he drawled, focusing on Greg. “I am however completely open to having one of you back with me after my shift.” The grin he sent in Sally’s direction had the desired effect.

Her face flamed red as she struggled to return the smile. “You’re as cheeky as Holmes.”

“My arse helps,” he quipped, another smile at Greg, while he reached down for a bar mop and began drying glasses. “What brings you both to my counter tonight?”

“Recovering, Teddy. And wondering who that chap is down at the end. He hasn’t been here before,” Greg pointed to the man clad in a twill blazer that looked almost too big on him.

He could have sworn that he saw the man not even six hours ago at the University. The male he passed off as a professor in the crowd that surrounded the latest crime scene. Even then, the stranger had warranted a second look, and now a third--if it was the same man.

The bartender looked down the counter, watching the man hunch over his pint, muttering to himself.

“Whoever he is, he’s giving me the willies,” Sally sipped the beverage before her and looked around the pub, noticing that the four people present had it all to themselves. “So, Teddy. Why is Greg here going green whenever he sees me drink?”

“He may have overdone it last night. Speaking of, is John okay? I worried about both of you.”

“How cute.” Sally’s words were syrup. “Watson did look a little peaky this morning.”

“He shouldn’t have. Bastard owes me new kicks,” Greg fished out his mobile, glancing back at the man down the bar every few seconds.

Why did he look so blasted familiar?

Swiping at the touch screen, he pulled up his emails and sifted through the ones with image attachments, anything to answer why his mind was throwing red flags at him. “Oi, Teddy, a water would be wonderful.”

“You’ve got it,” the blond said with a nod and turned his attention to the waving stranger. 

“Uh-oh, I know that look,” Sally set the empty tumbler down and leaned over to watch Greg sift through the files.

Stopping on the one dated for four days ago, flagging John Watson. He swallowed the lump in his throat, wishing Teddy would move faster with the water, and let the attachment load. 

“Cock,” he breathed once the file finished, looking back up at the man down at the end, now with a name. 

Jonathan Barlow.

~*~*~

Sherlock snapped his head up at the sound of footfalls in the stairwell. He closed John’s laptop and set it on a nearby table. 

The older man walked into the sitting room and made straight for the kitchen with Tesco bags in hand. The air about him screamed of an irritation that he would be happy to take out on Sherlock.

“Trouble with the checkout machine?” He rose to follow John into the kitchen and watch him put away the groceries that they both knew only John would eat.

John ignored him to finish his task and move on to pulling out two mugs.

Ah, tea time. 

Whatever his brother asked for rattled John after all.

Slinking up behind his lover, Sherlock molded himself to John’s back. He slipped his arms around the soft waist and pressed a light kiss against the nape of the doctor’s neck. “Make enough for three. We’re expecting a client.”

John paused, looking up over his shoulder and staring at Sherlock’s clothed collarbone. “A lead from my blog?”

The detective snorted and nuzzled the back of John’s ear. “Mine, thank you. Now, what could Mycroft have said to you that would warrant a trip to Tesco? We have plenty of tea.” He bit at the earlobe before him, nipping the flesh and sinking to the neck that he knew he could play as well as his violin. 

“Nothing,” John breathed, lust dropping his voice an octave while muscle memory went through the tea-making motions. Snap the kettle on, laugh as Sherlock kissed and laved at his neck, and hiss when his lover’s mouth closed around a tendon, the sensation of teeth nibbling on sensitive flesh forcing his pulse to double-time. “How long until the client gets here?”

Both men lifted their heads to the sounds of Mrs. Hudson opening the entrance door with “Boys, you have a visitor!”

Reaching around to grasp John’s chin, he pulled the other’s head around just enough to lean down and kiss him: an open-mouthed kiss that promised heat and sheer filth once the two had a moment alone. The slightly dizzy look on John’s face made Sherlock’s decision to do so completely worth it. He let John go and went out to greet the prospective client.

John licked his lips and waited three minutes for the hot flush to die when he was struck with a realization.

Sherlock Holmes was actually greeting clients. John almost wanted to wait to see if he could find four Horsemen on the horizon, but shrugged it off.

This case must have promised to be interesting, he mused while finishing up the tea. Arranging the three cups on the tray, he looked over his shoulder, hoping Sherlock left the kitchen pocket-doors open enough to toe them the rest of the way.

Grinning when he spotted the four inches (enough to do some interesting footwork), John lifted the tray and used a practiced move to open the pocket doors enough to spin and face the sitting room.

The move always gave him a great look of any potential clients (and a fast risk-assessment that five years out of combat would never quench.)

The client’s warm smile made John’s stomach clench and twist with horrifying familiarity. 

He knew that smile.

He saw it almost every night in his nightmares these last few days. The same smile that whispered how much it loved him as its owner torn him apart.

“Jesus,” he murmured and stumbled backwards. His grip on the tray went slack, sending the porcelain shattering. 

It hurt to breathe. Oh god, the pain. Fire crept up his sides, his vision tunneling as he looked for escape. When the hell did he find Sherlock’s website? Better yet, where was John’s fucking gun?

Gulping air, John saw Barlow’s smile fade, malice flashing in the man’s eyes while he waited for John to make his move. Pity his gun was up in his room, nowhere near close enough for him to grab and blow a hole in this monster’s head.

Sherlock stood and made his way to John, stopping when his partner began hyperventilating, his weight shifting dangerously to the left. “John. John! Shit!”

John gasped and wheezed, his hands finding something solid (oh God, Sherlock) to grab onto as his world…

… tilted…  
…and went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading and be sure to come say "hi" over on [tumblr!](http://maxthebd.tumblr.com)


	6. Shot In the Dark

Sherlock Holmes has known John Watson for the last five of the most beautiful and absolutely agonizing years of his life.  
  
Even then, he can count on one hand precisely how many times the man has lost consciousness in his presence.  
  
The first incident was the first year they spent as flatmates and both still raw from Moriarty's stunt at the pool. The only reason Sherlock bothered remembering the entire matter was that the case involved a  ginger-haired league and he was forced to color his hair in order to infiltrate the group.  
  
He never took into account that any of the men both John and he ended up pursuing could ever be armed.  
  
Two of the men were, one swiftly disarmed by John, who was so fixed on apprehending the first suspect, he never saw the second man fire off a shot.  
  
The shot that found a home in John's torso, sending him back to lean against a nearby wall and attempt to stifle any sounds of pain for his and Sherlock's benefit. The sight of crimson soaking John's jumper _du jour_ had Sherlock's own vision bleeding a furious scarlet.  
  
Sherlock would never delete the five seconds he spent waffling between committing a documented homicide, or helping John. Even then, John made up his mind by sighing and dropping to the alley floor in a blood-loss-induced faint.   
  
That was the first time Sherlock experienced the novel feeling of his own heart threatening to halt entirely.  
  
When retelling the story of the second time John lost his connection with the waking world, Sherlock Holmes grimace and hesitantly look around to the room, nodding once he visually located John.   
  
Sherlock had just completed the dismantling of Moriarty's web, and returned to 221B. He had no idea that he'd scare John witless.  
  
Literally.  
  
In hind sight, it was one of his more clever disguises. Clever enough to fool John into making tea for him, which gave him time to dismantle the guise and reveal himself to his beloved blogger.  
  
John had just set the tea tray down on the coffee table when he got a good look at his visitor's face.  
  
And crumpled to the floor.  
  
Sherlock would never forget how he manhandled John onto the sofa and waited for the visibly exhausted man to awake.  
  
When John did come to, he yanked Sherlock by his coat collar and embraced him hard enough to make  the latter's spine ache.  
  
The third time was a mere fifteen seconds ago.  
  
Sherlock should have been on his feet when he saw John's grip slip on the tray.   
  
The world screeched to a halt right when the tray hit the floor.  
  
Sherlock was up and leaping over the coffee table to catch John just as the latter's knees gave way.  
  
The client approached as well, concern and outright worry writ on his face. “Will Dr. Watson be okay?  Should I call an ambulance?”  
  
Eyebrows dropping, Sherlock glanced over the client's micro-expressions, skin, clothes, hygiene, and vocabulary, giving up when all data ended up overshadowed by this silent urge to hide John away from this interloper. Which meant getting rid of said interloper first.  
  
“Mr. Barlow, err, Jonathan, Dr. Watson's had a rough week and clearly ex-oh.”  
  
 _Oh._  
  
John didn't _introduce himself._   
  
Then again, anyone with functional eyes could read his thrice-damned blog.  
  
Sherlock tugged the unconscious man closer to his chest and prepared to stand.  
  
John knew this Jonathan Barlow and didn't expect him or welcome him.  
  
Eyes narrowed, he shifted his grip on John to slip an arm under John's knees. “Jonathan, I will email you when I have more details about your missing person. Mrs. Hudson will show you out. Good day.”   
  
Curiousity warred with concern when Sherlock waited for Mrs. Hudson's dimissal of the man before he moved into action.  
  
Sherlock kicked their bedroom door open and toed it shut behind them.   
  
~*~*~  
  
The trip to Thames House by automobile was never long, fifteen minutes at most, but the silence in the passenger cabin almost had Mycroft fidgeting in discomfort. Anthea and the predatory look she leveled at him did not help.  
  
The thud of a handheld device hitting leather was Mycroft's only warning before she pounced. “John's still being stubborn.”  
  
Mycroft  sneered, roughy pulling a folder out of a satchel that all but lived in the sedan. “As I've stated before, he is the perfect match to my brother.” Manicured hands flicked open the brief so he could skim over a few pages and not find the information that he hunted for. The folder snapped closed and was tossed on the bench next to him. “What did you find?”  
  
“A beautifully sophisticated Trojan. Six's department discovered that it was injected in the system shortly before your brother's,” she paused, swallowing the last three years of anger at her superior's baby brother, “magic trick. It originated from one of Five's terminals. Courtesy of a time-delayed remote-viewing software installation. One of our people had called an outsourced IT department.” She handed the handheld over to Mycroft, letting him read the rest of the report himself.  
  
“Despite my personal feelings regarding James Moriarty, I will give credit to the man's technological prowess,” he handing the phone back to her and almost dropping it at both the sounds of her ringtone and the vibration of his own phone.  
  
Both answered their phones, Anthea with a short “Speak,” and Mycroft with “Sherlock?”  
  
 _“John fainted when he saw one of my clients. I need everything you have on Jonathan Barlow and I needed it yester-”_ Mycroft ended the call and pressed the driver's intercom. “Stephen, back to Baker Street. Use the siren.”  
  
~*~*~   
  
“Oi, prick, watch where you're walking!” The youth shouted post-collision, shoving Jonathan Barlow into the road and almost into the path of an oncoming car.  
  
He glowered at the girl and shook his head. “Fucking chavs,” he muttered. “So fucking stupid.”  
  
Biting at a chapped lower lip, he savagely kicked a waste bin on the Regent Street sidewalk. Jonathan hissed in pain when the only things that moved were a few of his toes.   
  
“Fucking disaster,” he ducked his head against the newly-falling rain and muttered, traveling further away from Baker Street.  
  
Further away from his boy.  
  
Who shouldn't have been home. He knew John's schedule as well as his own prison timetable.  
  
He should have had time to get Sherlock alone, get him interested in his “case”, and pretty much have John delivered to his bed on a silver platter.  
  
John just had to be contrary, didn't he?  
  
Of course, he'd pick today to finally figure out the chip-and-pin machines.  
  
Of course John would come home early. Especially today.  
  
He stopped under a store overhang and leaned against the wall, eyes closed.  Only to see the blood leeching from John's face and the blond passing out at the mere sight of him.  
  
He'd have to plan his next move better. The suspicion on Sherlock's face when he caught John could have only been missed by a blind man, and even then, a blind man would have felt the sheer intent.  
  
 _Unless._  
  
 _Oh_ , he had underestimated Holme's affection for John and wrote the detective off as a nonentity.  
  
Jonathan knew when to admit that he was wrong. But he would take that possessiveness into account for his next move, his final move.  
  
“Johnny, Johnny, Johnny,” he sighed, knocking his head lightly against the store wall. “It's time to bring you home.”


	7. Lie to Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And Anthea makes tea...

Waking up in John Watson's world always felt a bit like a computer coming online. First, his body would wake up, which it did as slowly as physically possible. He felt himself waking up to warmth, surrounded by something familiar and something his subconscious deemed safe enough to just be vulnerable.  
  
Second, his mind would join the fray, lurching him into awareness with a small dose of panic, because he remembered just what happened before he... _Jesus Christ_ , he fainted.  
  
That was all. John took a few quiet moments to acknowledge that he saw his own version of Hell seated calmly in their sitting room. Once his body remembered exactly who said Hell ws, it all but declaried war on him with a previously-dormant panic attack. Hyperventilation finished the battle by completely knocking him offline.  
  
Hyperventilation also explained his aching chest.  
  
Nightmares from his past explained the onset of sheer terror now trying to swallow him, despite previous claims from the past that Jonathan Barlow would never hurt him again.  
  
The barristers had taken special measures to ensure John and his family that Barlow was to be locked away for a very long time.  
  
Except John had accepted that his life was so far from normal, that not only was Barlow out a free man, he had the sheer bravery, or sheer stupidity, to sit in their fucking sitting room with a fucking case!  
  
John inhaled sharply, his nose filling with the familiar smell of his, _their's dammit_ , their, bedroom.  
  
Flashes of Sherlock's face shortly before he fainted, fucking hell, he fainted, filled his memory. The sheer guilt that also filled him, for being responsible for his lover' panic, was more than enough to make him nuzzle into the sheet-covered thigh under his cheek.  
  
Long, slender fingers carded through his hair, followed by a warm hand settling on the curve of his healthy shoulder. "When you're feeling up to it, sit up slowly. I'm still unconvinced that you didn't brain yourself on a chair during your fall."  
  
John's relief was palpable at the first note of that welcomed baritone. Going limp on the leg he was half-curled around, he hummed a few contented noises when the hand resumed its strokes through his hair.  
  
"You know the client," Sherlock's voice was pitched low while his hand drifted back to John's shoulder and began rubbing in small, almost soothing circles.  
  
Soothing for who, John wasn't sure. But truthfully, between the murders and now this, they both needed some sort of comfort.  
  
"John, the last time I saw you _bona fide_ scared, was Baskerville."  
  
"Which I still fucking hate you for," John croaked. "Bloody prat."  
  
Sherlock tugged two pillows into the space between his back and the headboard and resettled long enough to drape John over his hips and replacing a hand on John's back to resume the circles that seemed to calm them both down. "I want you to tell me everything. I want to deduce everything, but I have recognized that which I want is not what I have the right to hear."  
  
John looked up to catch Sherlock's reddened eyes against a near translucent face. "Sherlock-"  
  
A raised hand cut John's response off. "Would you allow me to tell you my deductions about him?" He shifted minutely, and stopped once he made an unspoken decision. Sherlock pulled John up higher as he slid down onto the bed and tugged the blond tight to his chest. "Onced I finish, you can then explain why Lestrade is frantically texting you about Jonathan Barlow being at your local."  
  
John froze and then remembered to breath. "Let's hear 'em."  
  
"Yes, Sherlock," an unwelcome tenor cut through the room's silence. Both men's gazes snapped to the doorway as Sherlock shifted John to the side unseen by the intruder.  
  
Mycroft Holmes leaned against the door frame, Anthea peering over his shoulder. "Let's hear it. Come join us in the sitting room. And since John has somehow managed to charm my assistant, she's even treating us to tea."

 

* * *

  
  
Greg Lestrade pulled out his mobile and set it in front of him on the desk blotter, willing the screen to light up with a new message in response to the 14 messages he's previously sent to John. The last couple begged the man to answer.  
  
D.S. Sally Donovan blew through the door with three large folders in hand, when the screen did finally light up.

 
    
    
    Barlow was here. I hate being the last to know things. - SH

"Shit," he cursed and buried his face in his hands.  
  
"And I only bear more bad news," Sally intoned, setting the folders on Greg's desktop. "The entire team's poured through these damned things trying to find something on Barlow and sir, we can't even arrest him. Good behavior while incarcerated, early release even if something doesn't smell right, and his parole officer reports good behavior." She slammed a fist on the top folder before spinning into the empty portion of Greg's office, a picture of sheer frustration and days-old exhaustion.  
  
"He showed up at Baker Street. With a case." Greg flung the phone across the wood, watching it spin to a stop just near the edge long enough to teeter and promptly fall to the floor. "For Sherlock."  
  
Sally picked up the device, scanning Sherlock's latest message and the reason for Barlow's visit.

 
    
    
    Missing person case. Former soldier lover. Gave me a first name - SH  
      
    
    John. And then mine saw him and fainted. You should call to explain. - SH

  
Sally dropped it, her hand recoiling to run through and clutch at wind-blown and tangled curls.  
  
"Yet, since his release, we don't actually know if he's committed a real crime." He stood and pocketed the phone. Brushing a hand over his blazer's lapels, he rolled his neck and pulled his phone out again. "Stalking isn't even my division."  
  
Sally sank into the nearby visitor chair when the full implications of Greg's statement sank in. "So we wait for him to finish what he started with John? Your prison boys knew that he was sick in the head-"  
  
"Sally." He halted her rant when he began to dial a number that kept adding itself to his contact list each time he deleted it. "Fortunately, we have a very nosey friend in a very high place."

 

* * *

  
  
On the other side of the Thames, Jonathan Barlow walked down familiar streets, coming to a halt at a certain block. He then counted the steps and stopped once he reached 95 and turned to face the mouth of a dimly-lit alley.  
  
He looked left to catch any onlookers. Looked down the sidewalk in the other direction and turned to look across the street. On a whim, he looked up and found a CCTV camera turned toward the 4-way intersection at his left.  
  
A fast look at his pilfered mobile showed that he was even on time for his appointment. He stepped into the alley and followed it until the passage doubled in width and became lit by multiple sodium lamps, all casting their sickly orange glow on the bins lining the walls.  
  
Stopping under the fifth lamp, he stood and steeled himself for what he knew was to come.  
  
"You're late," a gruff voice reverberated throughout the alleyway.  
  
"You need a better watch," Jonathan answered, twitching, but ignoring the urge to step back when the voice's owner stepped out of the shadows and into the pale alley lamp light. He lifted a wrinkled hand and scratched at his newly trimmed beard before running the hand through freshly-cut hair.  
  
"There you are." A box was handed to him. "A new bottle of chloro-hydrate for you and a freebie that you'll appreciate."

Jonathan opened the plastic box and lifted a blue-banded vial. "What is it?"

"Muscle relaxant. Your next friend will feel everything, they just don't be able to do anything about it."  
  
"Appreciate, indeed." He nodded and smiled, allowing himself to relax enough to lean back on a wall.  
  
"I do have to warn you." The new arrival lit a cigarette and took two pulls. "Use the blue sparingly. If I know you, I know who you're going after. There will be hell to pay from, well, anyone, if you kill him."  
  
Jonathan felt a blush rise at the implications. Once again, Johnny surprised him.

The boy was always a friendly child. Apparently enough to charm major criminals.

Forcing a hard smile on his face, he handed over a wrinkled envelope to the waiting, leather-encased hand. "Two thousand quid."  
  
The hand moved back into the shadows, pocketing the envelope in a outlined parka. "Now you can kindly get the fuck out of here. And avoid the CCTV on your way out or you'll get us both killed."  
  
Barlow turned to leave with a muttered "whatever."  
  
The CCTV cameras turned to follow him down the street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter postings will be sporadic, but they'll always be posted on http://maxthebd.tumblr.com in a very rough fashion long before they're ever posted on AO3.


	8. Coming Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Fucking Hell." - John Watson

John swallowed down the panic making its attempt to claw its way through his throat. He had no idea why, or how much Mycroft needed to know, since the bastard had his file. He snuck a look at Sherlock, who inhaled and kissed John on the forehead.

“Come along, John. The longer we delay Mycroft, the bigger delay I have to eliminate that monster.” Sherlock sat up and slid out of bed to tug at John's hands.

Though the monster quip did encourage a smile out of the blond. One that swiftly perished when John found himself sat down on the sofa, with Sherlock at his right and Mycroft sitting on the coffee table.

It's like he's 12 all over again. With the same amount of unease.

His rescue came in the form of a tea tray-laden Anthea. She placed the cups in front of the brothers, only to disappear and reappear with two more cups and a wink. John took a sip of the hot liquid and raised an eyebrow. That beautiful angel.

The angel in Armani swapped out tea for whiskey with a hint of tea. He smiled over his cup and felt some of the panic subside.

Mycroft slapped the file onto the free side of the coffee table and leveled a curious look at both men opposite.

John, being fluent in Holmes, read that look as a dare for Sherlock. All three men knew that the file contained everything that was John Watson.

Most likely including files that Mycroft shouldn't have access to see. But since the man is the Government, John knew that rules honestly didn't apply to the older Holmes. Files that included the court case and he could put money on it that he'd also find a dossier on Jonathan Barlow.

But rather than let Sherlock read everything, John knew that it'd be less painful if he just started talking.

“I was twelve when he, Barlow, um- fuck. I'm sorry.” He struggled putting the words together. With a shake of his head, he tried once more.

“The, he, the fucker decided that he- shit.” A trembling hand carded through short blond strands. “I'm so sorry, but I can't – I fucking need some air.” He needed to leave.

_Now_.

Or 221B was going to suffocate him.

Sherlock watched the panic and terror flit across John's face and stood to counter his lover. “John, it's not sa-”

“Danger addict, Sherlock.” John bee lined to the hooks by the door and shrugged on his jacket. “What's one more threat?” Psychosomatic limp ignored, John all but ran down the stairs to flee 221 Baker Street.

The youngest Holmes started to grab his own coat when Mycroft halted him with a raised hand. He nodded to already coat-clad Anthea, who held up her mobile.

Sherlock could place pounds on a gamble that Mycroft already had a team tracking John.

He would even hedge an additional bet that the tracking started in the beginning, as result of John's file being flagged.

With Anthea tracking his blogger, his friend, John, Sherlock shook off his momentary lapse of judgement.

They would be fine.

“Brother mine, John will need time after we have Barlow in custody.”

“No, he won't. That man out there will hide this, shove it down and fume about it until it hurts him again. And now he's out there, with one of your more competent minions. So now I ask you, Mycroft. How did this bastard get out?”

Mycroft took a sip, grimacing at Sherlock's crude vocabulary and the cold cup of tea. He reached for John's abandoned cup nearby and held it out to Sherlock.

Both men could smell the alcohol.

“She's always had a soft spot for Dr. Watson. In the beginning, I advised her against it, but during your extended hiatus, I felt the need to encourage her behavior.”

“Mycroft, how does a felon in prison for life get out on parole?”

The addressed sipped at another whiskey-laced cup of tea, his eyes trained on a nearby window. “I don't know. And that disturbs me.”

~*~*~

Opportunity knocks.

Jonathan had no idea from where the proverb originated, but he always preferred the cheekier version.

“While opportunity may knock, temptation leans on the damned doorbell.”

Temptation in the form of his boy, looking a little ragged and still tired since the last time Jonathan laid eyes on the man, walked right into his pub, followed by a rather pretty bird who's slipped onto the stool next to him.

Temptation continued to lean on the bell leading him to adopt the stool closest to the door and on the opposite side of the bar.

Out of sight.

But never out of earshot.

Until the bird wrapped her arms around John, his Johnny, right then did Jonathan Barlow see red.

_Now_.

He couldn't wait any longer.

It had to be now.

John was two steps away from being stolen by a woman right underneath his nose.

He couldn't let that happen. But forcing the man to leave his stool was asking for a fight that Jonathan did not need.

So he waited for John to imbibe at least six shots of something strong.

Opportunity stepped aside to let temptation sing as it walked to the bathroom, deliciously oblivious in its intoxicated state.

He allowed John to relieve himself.

_Now_.

He sank a hypodermic needle into the meat of John's shoulder and cradled the man when he crumpled to the bathroom floor.

The door slammed open, Anthea framed in the doorway. She quickly scanned the mirror for signs of John. When she couldn't locate him, she turned her attention to the floor, going wide-eyed at the sight of Barlow crouching over him.

She yanked her phone, yelping when Jonathan grabbed the device and threw it at a wall before turning his full ire onto her.

She made to reach for her hidden weapon, only to gasp when large hands reached for her head, slamming it against the wall for her troubles. He let the woman drop to the floor, turning back to the unconscious John Watson.

“Sorry, love. But Johnny and I need our alone time.”

She groaned when her vision scattered, but she watched Barlow sling one of John's arms over a shoulder and leave the bathroom.

_Fucking hell_.

Blinking away the pain, she crawled to her phone and smacked the panic button on the side. With a wince, she curled up against the wall and activated the phone's speaker.

“Clean-up needed. Target has Dr. Watson. I repeat, the target, the fucker, has John.”

~*~*~

The last time Sherlock felt fear of this magnitude was when he watched John go sheet pale and pass out.

Truthfully, Sherlock was curious to see if he'd do that exact thing when he watched the color drain from his brother's face.

Mycroft nodded and ended the call, dropping his head slightly to gather his next words.

No, Sherlock was not going to faint. Anger replaced the fear and channeled everything else into a fist now clenching on the handle of the jack-knife imbedded in the mantel. “He has John.”

Mycroft nodded once more, and pocketed his phone.

Sherlock swallowed his rage and let some vulnerability slip in to his following words.

“Mycroft, I need your help. I need -” _I need John back._ Well, there were some things that no one needed out there in the open.

“Consider it done, Brother mine.”

~*~*~

Awareness hit John with a mouth filled with cotton that he's unable to shift and a hangover that rivalled the one he had when Sherlock returned.

Gagging around the cotton, his hands dropped to wipe at his sweat-covered face, only to yank to a stop with a clang of metal against metal. Eyes snapped up to look at the noise's source when he saw a familiar sight.

That would explain the bite of pain around his wrists.

_Mother fuck._

_Shit._

_Don't panic._

Sweat began its trek down John's forehead and into his eyes. Blinking away the saline-laced fluid, he tried to regulate his breathing. Memory and training forced him to calm down and assess the situation.

He had six shots of vodka at the bar, with Anthea. Who would have let him out of this mess if she was anywhere around.

So it was safe to assume that the impact he heard as some drug coursed through his system was Barlow's assault on her.

John would apologize to her later. So, he had six shots of vodka, and that headache that gnawed at the back of his skull felt awfully familiar.

_Don't panic._

The smell did too.

He knew that smell.

Decomposition.

At least, the beginning stages of it.

_Fuck._

He turned as far as his stiff neck would allow to see a familiar, terrifyingly familiar face, now grey from the lack of blood flow.

_Fucking hell._

Teddy.

Teddy was dead and had been for the past 48 hours.

“Hello, John.”

John Watson's heart threatened to stop entirely. And then it leapt into his throat.

“Pity about the lad. His zeal didn't quite match yours.” Barlow walked over to the bed and shoved Teddy's corpse off onto the floor. He straddled John's hips and let the blond take his weight while he removed John's gag.

He's not 12 anymore. He's 40 fucking years old and he's an ex-soldier for fuck's sake. Knocking his head against Jonathan's arm, he bit at the criminal and started to fight for all he was worth.

Because this wasn’t happening.

He was still back at the pub with Anthea, fuck, but those shots and that pinch in his shoulder and -

_Oh God_.

A backhand across John's face knocked the fight out of him.

It's like he's 12 all over again.

A fit of coughing forced John to bite back another gag and hoarsely whisper, “Why him?”

Barlow reached over to the bedside table and opened a bottle of water, using some to wipe off John's face.

The rest, he grabbed John's chin with a large, strong hand and held it in place. “It's water. You're parched. Drink up.”

John accepted the head tilt, shuddering when Barlow's other hand went behind his head to lift him into a prime drinking position. He took a few sips of the allowed water and felt tears course down his face when he heard a purred “Good boy. You always were one for me, weren't you?”

“Did you have to kill him?”

Barlow let John go and capped the water. He set it back on the table so he could run his hands down John's chest. “I had to. Because you see, Johnny. Prison? It changes a man. Makes him crave the good things in life. It tides the man over until he's out.” He leaned down and grabbed John's face again. A harsh kiss stolen from chapped lips, Jonathan sat back up to hover over John.

“Now, I'm out. And I craved you. Your body. Your screams. And now I have you. I will have your body. Your screams, well, they'll just have to come along the way, won't they, Johnny?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a couple of notes. First, a huge THANK YOU to my beta (who had her work cut out for her and I am so sorry): everyone meet [masked-alias](http://masked-alias.tumblr.com). 
> 
> Second, the updates will be coming weekly, because I just want this fic finished. Then I'll update my damned CatLock mess.
> 
> Third, I'll be at 221b Con this upcoming April. I would love it if you came to say "hi!" If all else fails, you'll get a magnificent blush out of me.


	9. What Have You Done Now?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don't look at me. Please...” - John Watson

Sally noticed Baker Street's abnormally high count of black SUVs first.  
  
“Is it just me, or did Mr. Government beat us here?” she quipped while Greg found a parking spot disturbingly close to 221.  
  
"Mycroft beat us here," Greg answered and slammed the car door shut, eyes on a guarded 221, complete with black-suited government lackeys who were obviously packing. “Gentlemen.” He addressed the two men, each a head taller than he, with a nod.  
  
They were greeted with a polite “Identification, please.”  
  
“Mr. Government means business,” Sally bumped Greg's shoulder and displayed her badge with a grin. Greg followed suit and watched one man step aside, while the other opened the door for them.  
  
“We've been expecting you,” the second waved them both inside, while the first all but herded the two Metropolitan officers through the door.  
  
Sally waited for Greg to step inside behind her before she commented with a concerned "This is now terrifying."  
  
Sally waited for her superior to step close behind her before commenting “I'm a little nervous. You?”  
  
"Greatly," Greg heard the door close behind them. "This is a terrified Mycroft." He shrugged off his jacket and waited for her to do the same. "I can only imagine how Sherlock is taking th-"  
  
Shattering glass and vicious cursing greeted them from upstairs.  
  
“Badly. He's taking it badly." Sally let Greg lead the way up the stairs and into 221B's bustling sitting room turned government command center. “And he's not the only one.”  
  
Black cases, equipment, computers, black-suited men and women buzzed nearby, one stepping behind Greg with a gratingly polite, "Detective Inspector, come with me."  
  
He allowed the man to lead him to the kitchen, currently housing a bruised Anthea, currently being treated by yet another suit wielding a massive first-aid kit. She waved at the Detective Inspector and beckoned him over.  
  
“Jesus, love, is the other guy still alive?”  
  
"Sadly," the assistant deadpanned and winced when the attending suit hit a sore spot.  
  
Greg lost the fight to his rising smirk. "Where's his Highness?"  
  
"Behind you," she lifted a hand to point behind the DI, signaling Sherlock's appearance of black silk and tailored wool. Red-rimmed eyes greeted Lestrade when Sherlock took stock of who stood in his kitchen.  
  
His entire being slumped when he didn't find the one he desired.  
  
Feeling his own heart break, Greg wrapped the distraught detective in a quickly returned embrace. "Hey, we'll find him."  
  
Wet warmth, Christ, tears trickled down his neck before the younger man pulled away to wipe away the tears with a sleeve and a wobbly “Of course we will.”  
  
"Good god," Sally exclaimed from the kitchen doorway. "Are you crying?"  
  
"Donovan!" Greg barked, watching his Second approach both of them with a predatory smirk.  
  
The crack of skin impacting skin stunned everyone present into complete silence.  
  
Save Sally, who merely huffed and asked "Finished with the sobby bit?"  
  
Sherlock rubbed at his reddened cheek and sneered down his nose. "I am now. Felt good?"  
  
"Cathartic," she remarked and shoved the detective out of her way. "Let's find Watson. Minions! With me!" She beckoned to the men right behind Anthea, who nodded and released the suited men into Donovan's charge.  
  
Sherlock allowed Mycroft's assistant to press a cold strip to his face and hold it there.  
  
He found himself grateful that she never insisted on dull chatter. Only to softly repeat, "We'll find him."  
  
Sherlock jerked from his slouch. “The name of that barkeep, the one that'd always flirt with John.  What was his name?"  
  
"Teddy," Anthea offered. "He's a sweetie. Talked to everyone at the counter." She turned her attention to her phone, now tapping in a search for the bartender.  
  
"Was a sweetie," Sherlock winced. "Where's his flat?"  
  
"Central London, off of Marylebone. Benson, Fitzgerald," she called and nodded to the two suited men left standing guard at the door. "With me. Contact Mr. Holmes.  Tell him we have a lead and we have his brother."  
  
"Yes Ma'am."  
  
~*~*~  
  
Screaming helped.  
  
Screaming distracted him from the fire racing up his spine.  
  
Screaming distracted him from the smell of coppery blood and musky semen, the sweat and the smell of Barlow's saliva now littering John's skin in damp paths that only served to make his skin crawl.  
  
John wanted to tear his skin off.  
  
Hell, it took everything in him, all of his fading discipline and control, not to vomit and possibly endure worse.  
  
And if there was one thing his years on the battlefield taught him, it was that things could always, always get worse.  
  
Barlow did try sticking his cock down John's throat, but the threat of teeth and John's own thrashing only earned him a sore throat, a wretched taste in his mouth, and Barlow standing on the bed to kick John's scarred shoulder.  
  
That left John breathless.  What should have been screams were whimpers of sheer agony.  
  
And then Jonathan noticed the scar.  
  
He made it a point to dig into with a handy jack-knife because how dare John be marked up in such a way.  
  
His boy would never allow that type of disfigurement. Nor would Jonathan as he dug the knife into flesh that wasn't deadened to pain.  
  
John almost welcomed that pain, that searing pain that faded into a dull throb. He should have focused on that, but quickly knew that Barlow unzipping his trousers was somehow more important.  
  
More terrifying.  
  
The screams have stopped. He can't bring himself to scream anymore.  
  
A new wave of fire raged through him in waves.  
  
Blood must have sufficed for lube this time around.  
  
He can cry, right? It's okay to cry when someone is ripping your world, your entire being in half, right? He can't gag too much when he's sobbing, right?  
  
The hand on his face, grabbing, oh, there will be bruises there. But he's being told just how good of a boy he is, and John just wants it to stop.  
  
His stomach rolls, and this time, the rolling doesn't end, even when that rough hand on his face turns into a sharp slap because John didn't respond in time.  
  
He's being strangled now. The hands on his neck are pressing hard enough, just a bit more and then maybe he'd find that sweet release, that oh-so welcome silence.  
  
His vision fades around the edges and John finds himself silently begging that Barlow just fucking finishes it.  
  
He feels like he's floating when Barlow enters him again, the oxygen deprivation and shock allowing him to finally, finally disconnect, as far away as his mind can travel.  
  
Let Barlow fuck a doll. After all, it's what the monster fucking wanted.  
  
A crashing door and two gunshots yank John right back to earth and the pain and he can breathe again and fucking god, he wants to scream and cry and get sick and taking a goddamned shower all at once.  
  
Barlow yanks out of him yelling “You shot me in the arse!”  
  
“John!”  
  
 _God_.  
  
Sherlock.  
  
 _Oh god_.  
  
Sherlock.  
  
“John!” That absolutely missed baritone sounds through the room when Barlow's disgusting warmth is yanked away and out of John's sight. Sherlock yells above Jonathan's agonized screaming. “Shut up. You'll live.”  
  
He can feel his stomach finally give into the rolling and he rolls over as far as the handcuffs on his wrists would allow, only to vomit on both the bed and the floor.  
  
“Get him out of here!” Greg, good old Lestrade, ordered the suited men, who disappeared with Barlow in tow, and avoiding the sick on the floor, held John in place. “Easy, John. Let it all out. ”  
  
Dry heaves turned into sobs when John saw Sherlock's face over Greg's shoulder.  
  
Sobs turned into small cries of “Don't look. Please don't look.”  
  
“John, Sherlock get over here!” Greg's presence faded when Sherlock clasped both hands lightly around John's face.  
  
“It's over, John.”  
  
It was pain that drew the heavy lines on John's bruised face as the blond weakly turned his face into one of Sherlock's palms. "Don't look at me."  
  
"John?" Sherlock helped Greg release the blood-encrusted restraints around John's wrists and gently guided his hands to his chest. "He will not hurt you again."  
  
John's broken sobbing shredded Sherlock's heart. "Don't look," he tried to drag his arm up over his face, crying out in pain. "Please..."  
  
Greg grabbed Sherlock's shoulder and nodded toward John's legs. "Give me your coat."  
  
The detective complied, red-rimmed eyes looking down at the bloody, broken man on the bed.  
  
Who still begged, cried, that Sherlock not look at him. Not like this.  
  
Laying his coat over John's naked lower half, he stroked a gentle hand over John's arm and leaned down on level with John's ear.  
  
If John didn't want him to look, then he'd at least give John that much.  
  
"John, the medics are here. Can they sedate you? It'll make the trip easier?" Greg set a hand on top of John's sweat-soaked hair, both men listening for the sobs to slow down.  
  
"Yes," John whispered, his arm dropping back to his side. Reddened blue eyes looked back up at the trembling detective. "Come with? Please?" John asked as he turned his face toward Sherlock's. Not looking at his lover at all.  
  
Who gently gripped John's chin and turned his face back toward the water-stained ceiling, whispering "I'll be there when you wake up," in John's ear. "I promise."  
  
Sherlock nodded at the medics, releasing John into their hands only to be grabbed by and yanked close by Greg.  
  
The silver-haired Detective Inspector thumped a finger against Sherlock's chest. "I don't care what Mycroft has planned. Don't you dare kill him."  
  
"I have no idea what Mycroft ever has planned-”  
  
“You shot him in the arse, Sherlock!”  
  
“Yet I plan to be there when John wakes up. I'll see you at the hospital," he answered and looked down at his phone's newest text alert.  
  


  
\-- Barlow intercepted. Directions to follow.

~*~*~

The sharp smell of petrol led Sherlock to an open freezer, where he spotted the two lines of petrol circling around on the floor.

A quick sniff made his nose crinkle when he saw the restrained and soaked Jonathan Barlow defiantly staring up at him.

As if nothing could ever hurt him. Not even two bullets in the arse.

“Holmes. Figured you'd show up eventually. Come to play the knight in shining armor?”

Sherlock remained silent, a hand in his coat pocket already fiddling with the pocket's contents.

“And you're late. Again. Never mind, I've already had him once. Twice even before you showed up with the bobbies.”

Sherlock inhaled, the petrol serving as his reminder to be careful. He promised John closure.

And that he wouldn't kill Jonathan Barlow in the process.

Technicalities.

"Oh, you didn't think you were his first, did you? And there's that one scream of his when you pin him down ju-" The sound of a struck match cut Barlow off mid-word. “The bloody fuck are you doing? There's petrol all over the place!”

"One error, Jonathan Barlow. You made one grievous error," Sherlock held the match out over a line of petrol on the floor and waited for the criminal's eyes to go wide with panic.

Much better.

"Oh God, don't – I had him first! He was mine in the first place!" The rapist started to struggle, now very aware of the short distance between him and a fiery demise.

“John Watson was never yours,” the detective growled and spun to walk away. He dropped the lit match into a petrol stream and paused long enough to hear the petrol ignite.

He slammed the freezer shut just as the screams erupted in harmony with quickly growing flames. He made his way outside of the abandoned meat-packing warehouse to a waiting SUV.

“We're ready when you are, Mr. Holmes.” One of Mycroft's younger team members held a remote out to Sherlock and held the back door open for Sherlock to climb inside.

A soft beep sounded just as Sherlock tucked himself inside the backseat.

A new text.

Mycroft.

  
\-- Princess Grace, John admitted and sedated.

Sherlock sighed and pressed the remote's lone button. “Princess Grace, please. I have a promise to keep.”

The warehouse exploded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, a huge thank you to Masked Alias for whipping this puppy into shape. 
> 
> And I also have good news. The final chapter is finished and will be posted before I run away to 221b Con. :D


	10. Let It Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Observing John Watson would never grow old

Every eye in the A&E's waiting lobby turned toward the rain-soaked Sherlock Holmes, whose bright blue eyes immediately found Mycroft and the ever-present Anthea armed with a familiar paisley velvet duffel. 

“Got caught in that Battersea thunderstorm?” She queried, holding the bag out to him while herding him toward the nearest washroom, letting his brother do the actual talking.

“Indeed, I imagine the rain was dreadful.” Mycroft walked alongside Sherlock and held the bathroom door open for him, only to lock it behind them. "Dr. Watson has been admitted and is currently being seen to in room 13. The entire staff attending to him have all signed the proper documentation. If this leaks, there will be consequences," he grimaced and shrugged off his blazer. "Give me your coat."

Sherlock froze mid-trouser swap and stared up at his brother, who held his blazer out to him.

"You reek of petrol. It may trigger John. Get dressed and take the damned coat."

Mycroft's rare curse knocked Sherlock out of his stupor and gave him a chance to finish changing. Rising to full height, Sherlock quickly made his way to the door and unlocked it, holding it open for the ginger-haired man behind him, only to stop him with a hand on Mycroft's arm. 

"Mycroft," Sherlock looked toward the ground, swallowed, and looked back up at his older brother. "Thank you."

Who handed Sherlock a sheet of parchment, engraved with the decorations that looked an awful lot like a marriage license.

Sherlock's eyes snapped wide as he looked between the paper and his brother, who merely smiled and led Sherlock to the double-doors marking the private rooms of the A&E. "Your doctor needs you, Sherlock. If you encounter any resistance, well, no doctor would be foolish to keep a Holmes from his partner."

If Sherlock were anyone else, his jaw would have gaped with shock.

Fortunately, he was a Holmes. He pocketed the license inside the borrowed blazer and pushed through the A&E doors, eyes trained on the room numbers.

And he counted, stopping only for one number.

Thirteen.

Thirteen.

Ten.

Eleven.

Twelve.

Sherlock stopped at the door of room Thirteen and inhaled deeply to clear away his new found nerves. No matter how infuriated and outright scared he still was, he had to remind himself that John never asked for any of the last 24 hours. 

And if Sherlock felt like he'd been dragged through Hell, he couldn't even fathom how John felt. He scowled at a nearby nurse and pushed open the room's door slowly.

LED lights illuminated the dim room, casting an eerie glow on the resting man in the bed.

Who lifted a bandaged hand in a weak facsimile of a wave and tried to smile at the dark-haired detective. "Hey...flick the light."

Sherlock flipped the light switch and made a beeline for John's medical chart, to confirm the injuries he already knew.

Broken ribs.

A cracked jaw.

Multiple lacerations around the wrists from John fighting against the handcuffs.

Stitches to John's shoulder.

Sherlock stopped reading when he came to the rectal tearing and swallowed hard. He flipped the chart shut to drop it back into the tray at the end of John’s bed. The bruises and injuries would only serve as reminders from which Sherlock would try his damnedest to distract both himself and John. He would succeed.

And eventually- "John," his voice cracked mid-word, much to his horror. 

"I love you," John responded, bruise-ringed eyes wet of their own accord. "And I'm so-."

"Stop. You have nothing to apologize for." Two fingers pressed on John's lips to halt the apology. Of course John would apologize for this. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I'm on morphine," John slurred, reaching for one of Sherlock's hands to pull close. "You didn't kill him, did you?"

"I wanted to." Sherlock thumbed the button for the morphine drip as he sat next to John's blanketed hip. "I only did what I should have done in the first place." 

"Wha-" John shook his head, blinking back the urge to succumb to the medication's promised sleep. "What did you do?"

Observing John Watson would never grow old. Nor would giving into the urge to brush graying blond off of John's forehead. The wince that John pulled compelled Sherlock into pressing the drip, releasing yet another necessary dose of medication.

"Oh, John," Sherlock pressed a kiss to John's hand and watched his partner finally surrender to sleep. 

"I let him burn."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, a super huge thank you to Masked Alias for whipping this last chapter into shape. And a super huge thank you to every single reader who gave kudos or comments. I know it's been a long ride, but I hope it was a worthy one.
> 
> I hope to meet some of you at 221b Con!

**Author's Note:**

> Real Life got in the way. If you want to spoil yourself, check out [this thread](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/19743.html?thread=120193055#t120193055) or come say "hi" over on [Tumblr](http://maxthebd.tumblr.com).


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